Reconciliation
by lady-harker
Summary: Over the three years following Sherlock's fall, John wrote a series of letters which he knew would never be read. Only, Sherlock finds them. Confused and afraid, he returns to the last place he remembers being sure of what he was doing. Post-Reichenbach.


**Disclaimer:** characters aren't mine. neither is show or anything recognisable like those things.

**A/N:** This began as a one shot but is taking so long to write I've split it up into three parts (the second of which is _nearly_ done). This is a fic for my test-reader/best friend Amanda aka RedBrickandIvy as it was her birthday yesterday and I've been working on this for a friggin week. Let me know what you think.

**Reconciliation**

**Part One: Letters To A Dead Man**

* * *

_Sherlock_

This is stupid. I can almost feel you reading this over my shoulder and deeming it childish.  
It _is_ childish. And it's stupid.  
Scratch that, this is pathetic.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

Ella (my psychiatrist) convinced me to give this another go. I still think it's stupid, but yeah.  
I've started going back to see her now. I'm not entirely sure why. I don't listen to her half the time. She keeps getting me to try and tell her all about you, about how the whole situation is making me feel. But I can't tell her, because…well I just can't.  
So she said I should write to you instead.  
So I am.  
This is stupid.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

Your funeral is tomorrow.  
Hell.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

You're gone.  
No denying it now. I saw you laid to rest in the ground beneath that unfeeling black slab. Yeah, I know. Needlessly poetic.  
There weren't many people there. Me, obviously, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Mike, even Dimmock made an appearance. Mycroft was there for a while but he lingered towards the back and didn't talk with anyone, at least not that I saw.  
You know, there was a part of me hoping you were just going to pop out from somewhere and say it wasn't true, that it was all a lie. Like the casket would pop open, you'd sit up and say it was some sort of experiment. I'd have smacked you if you had, but you didn't.  
You're dead.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I'm staying at Mike's for now. It's a temporary solution, I still think of Baker Street as my home. I go to visit Mrs Hudson nearly everyday though, someone has to look after her after all. She's not doing great. None of us are.  
She puts on a brave face and is always smiling and has a good brew and some charming stories to whittle on about but I've heard her crying when I arrive early. I've seen it in her red puffy eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the constantly refreshing box of tissues. One of the things I wish I hadn't picked up from you.  
I wish you could see her, you know. Maybe if you knew the effect you'd have you wouldn't have done what you did. Maybe…

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I went back to your grave today.  
Mrs Hudson came with me. On the way she told me of how Mycroft had bought her a book about Victorian floral meanings. She'd used it to construct the small bunch of flowers she brought with her. Pink carnations for motherly love and gardenia for good luck. They were gathered somewhat haphazardly around a single black rose for goodbye.  
It was an unusual bouquet but it still had an elegant beauty to it. Mrs Hudson said it suited you more than she'd intended. I agree.  
I stayed at your graveside longer than I expected to but I had a lot to say. Things I couldn't tell Ella and things I can't seem to write down either. You deserved to hear them yourself, even though you couldn't. You should know though I meant every word and that favour I asked of you…please Sherlock…

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I'm writing this in the pub because I need to hear the noise and the sounds of the world moving on because sometimes I forget that. I always forget everything moves on around me. It still feels like I'm frozen in that moment when I saw you on the ground with your…your halo of blood. It's been two months and it still burns.  
I've lost count of how much I've drunk tonight.  
There's some girl across the room giving me the eye.  
Why did you do it Sherlock? I know you weren't a fraud.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

Mycroft keeps trying to talk to me. I refuse to listen to or even acknowledge him. It doesn't matter if he's "the British government" as you often told me, it's still his fault this even happened.  
If he sends a car for me I'm going to ignore it. He hasn't got to that point yet but I know it's just a matter of time. Stubbornness is synonymous with the name of Holmes after all.  
It's like he thinks he owes me something. I'm not sure if he does. I think he owes you more.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I've moved out of Baker Street.  
It's official. I picked up the last of my things today. The place I have now is much like the place I had before I met you. Small, dull, box-like and filled with emptiness and silence. Poetic again. I don't care.  
I didn't want to leave 221B but there's just too much there. Too much of you. I can't move on when it feels like your memory is continually hovering over me.  
I'm sorry.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I'm getting bored.  
I always thought you were being childish when you used to say that. Well you always used to huff it or screech it or yell it. I think it was the only word where you couldn't just say it like a normal person.  
I don't have to tell you to stop playing your violin at 3 in the morning, there's no mess to clear out from the kitchen and the wall is horribly intact. I never thought I'd miss the bullet holes or the smiley face but it's too strange.  
Then there's the crime scenes and the running and the excitement. They're gone too and it doesn't feel right. Like the world has faded back into black and white. It's too normal.  
I miss you, Sherlock.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I've met someone.  
I know you wouldn't approve, you never have.  
Her name is Debbie and we met yesterday at the National Gallery. She seems nice but I don't know. I haven't really had a girlfriend since Janine. Thank _you_ for that(!)

John

* * *

_Sherlock_

Debbie is a dead loss.  
As soon as she figured out I had known you while you were alive she slapped me and left.  
I didn't like her anyway.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I dreamt of you last night. Not a nightmare, at least not in a conventional way.  
You were alive, obviously. Your usual resolute, confident self but you seemed…sort of upset. You were talking and I didn't catch everything you said but you said you had to go away for a while. You didn't want to but I would be fine without you.  
You said I was strong.  
You said I didn't need you.  
Then you left. I tried to stop you but I couldn't move. I was frozen in place and then you were gone. You left me again.  
You were wrong, I'm not strong.  
I haven't left my room today.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I haven't written in a while, about four months I think. I feel bad about that, like I'm abandoning you. I don't want to do that.  
I stumbled across my older letters this morning. Usually I just write these things then stuff them away but I read through them all and I guess I was shocked at how different things are now. Well they are, but they're not.  
Still in the box flat, still work at the clinic, still ignoring Mycroft although I'm not entirely sure how long that'll last but I refuse to be bullied by him. Not anymore.  
Anyway my point is things around me haven't changed but I have. I don't notice the emptiness you left behind anymore. I'm used to it but it doesn't feel like I've moved on, I've just…accepted that I'm alone.  
I hope you're happy, you bastard.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

You're such a conniving, lying dick. You know that?  
They finally found your phone, Sherlock. You lying bastard. I don't know where it's been, I think it got lost somewhere in evidence.  
There was a message on it, you dick. Greg played it. I heard it. I know.  
You've been cleared of course. Complete rescind of the charges against you and a full pardon. You're already a big hit with the online community, apparently there's a whole section of Tumblr dedicated to your 'holiness' and 'self-sacrificing' nature. The Fallen Angel some of the papers are calling you. It makes me sick.  
Don't get me wrong. Lord knows I've questioned my belief in you more times than I care to confess and it's nice to know that you weren't a fraud and that I didn't put my faith in a liar and a cheat. But I can't get that phonecall out of my head!  
Our final conversation has haunted my waking and sleeping hours for months Sherlock because why? Why would you tell me you were a fraud when you had evidence that would prove you weren't? Why would you insist you lied to me about everything? Why would you…why would you break my heart like that and make me feel like an idiot?  
You have to be alive now, even if only so you can come explain that to me because I swear I will never stop asking that question.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I just realised what the last words I said to you were.  
Not the phone call. Before that.  
I'm sorry.  
I'm so so sorry.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I saw your brother today.  
Frankly, I'm surprised by how long I've lasted. I was certain he'd have given up waiting by now and, I don't know, kidnapped me or poisoned me, or something equally dramatic just to get me to listen to him for two minutes.  
Told me he wasn't going to apologise as he'd already done that.  
Said he had a case for me, had the file in his hand and everything.  
I told him I wasn't you and to please piss off before I smacked him and I still blame him for everything.  
The file's on my bedside table.  
Should I look at it?

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

The file's still on the table.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

What am I supposed to do?  
Do I take the case?  
I'm not you but I can't stand this dullness anymore, Sherlock.  
What do I do?

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I took the case. Straight up robbery, simple enough.  
Turned out there wasn't actually a robbery, the item had been sold and then reported as stolen. Evidence and false witness were planted to frame the black sheep of the family.  
I'm sure you'd have solved it within minutes. I took considerably longer.  
Reported my findings back to Mycroft to find he'd already figured it out and mobilised the relevant department. Basically he wasted my time.  
I hate your brother. Have I ever mentioned that?

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

Everybody's been saying about how I seem cheerier since the case your brother gave me. I feel better too.  
It reminded me of how you cured my 'limp' way back when.  
I'm assuming the effect of the case was just as intended as your cabbie chase through London.  
Guess it figures that your brother would be just as sneaky and manipulative as you.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I've been taking more cases.  
Mycroft brings them, I take them, I do my best. No blogging though.  
I don't solve all of them. I'm not you.  
Still work at the clinic though. I don't earn as much as you might. I'm just plain old John Watson after all.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I'm in hospital.  
It was my first murder case. I could practically hear you criticising me the entire time.  
"You're doing that wrong, John." "At least try to not look like you suspect him" "That one's the murderer John. That one right there."  
I was hardly very subtle in my investigation, and just as I figured out who it was, they cornered me. I'll be frank, most of the details are still kind of sketchy. There were a couple shouts and a gun was drawn, that's about the extent of my memory.  
According to the nurse I was out for a couple of days. Apparently I lost a lot of blood.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

Still here.  
Your brother came yesterday. He looked guilty and promised me I'd get sufficient rest and came as close to apologising as I suspect he was willing to.  
I dreamt of you again last night. First time in just over a year.  
You were there in the hospital room. You didn't look the way I remembered, your hair was lighter and a good deal shorter and there was a scar on your forehead. You seemed older as well, like you'd been through some unknown hell. It was still you though. Even looking like that I'd recognise you.  
Didn't really say anything. You'd occasionally move around, your eyes always trained on me. You favoured the seat beside my bed although you sat anywhere you could, even over in the far corner.  
Waking up to realise I'd only been dreaming had hurt.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

Mycroft has stopped giving me cases.  
I was discharged two weeks ago and I'm back at working for the clinic. Fewer hours though, I tire out a bit too easily at the minute to work decent hours.  
Your brother is paying my rent at the moment, he was insistent about it and I was too tired to protest too much. It's only temporary, just until I can get myself back together again.  
I hope he gives me another case. I've come to rely on those you know.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I've met someone, Sherlock.  
Mycroft introduced us. Her name is Mary and she's wonderful. Thoughtful, kind, a smile that could light up the night sky. A teacher as well.  
We've actually been together a while now and it's…nice.  
Eugh! That's a ghastly word but I'm just not sure how to explain her to you.  
You wouldn't like her, though you never really liked anyone, did you?  
Still she makes me happy, Sherlock. Surely that's got to count for something.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

I'm writing this in Bristol. Meeting the parents.  
That's something I haven't done in a long while. They seem nice though, Sherlock. Her mother's a delight, her father's interesting. A bit intimidating though. He's a big football fan and seems intent on including me in his passion. "Part of the family" he said.  
Sharp as a pin though that guy, I bet he'd give even you a run for your money.  
Part of me wishes you were here to meet them, and the other part remembers what you're like and thinks maybe it's better that you're not here after all.

_John_

* * *

_Sherlock_

It's nearly three years now since you stepped off that roof.  
I still miss you. I swear I do but I don't feel the pain as harshly as I used to. It's Mary you see.  
Without her I don't know where I'd be right now. I owe her so much for getting me to a point where I can feel happy with where I am. She makes me happy, Sherlock. She makes me smile.  
I love her, Sherlock.  
I've found a beautiful ring, simple and elegant yet affordable. I'm going to ask her to marry me.  
I know you wouldn't approve but if she says yes then I'll have a fiancée and maybe someday we'll have kids.  
A family, Sherlock. It's what I need, it's what I want. It'll keep me from getting lost again.  
I'd hope you might understand my reasons but there was never really any telling with you.

_John_

* * *

His thin fingers were beginning to crumple the final letter which he was gripping probably a bit too tightly in his hand. He didn't realise he was crying, oblivious to the blurriness the tears brought to his vision, until he felt them gently trace silent tracks over his cheeks.

Not one of them sported a date but it was obvious that the last three had been written over the last year. Letters written in response to heightened emotions: nervousness, anxiety, worry. Each emotion expressed seemed truthful and sincere but the words weren't meant for him, that much was obvious. It was just another form of therapy, a way of dealing. Sherlock had become little more than a tool to deal with the anxiety life began to throw at John as he started to grow beyond his need to see his friend again. 'Sherlock' had become just another term for 'Dear diary'.

However he thought of it, every deduction he took from the words on the page all said the same thing. John Watson had moved on. He didn't need Sherlock anymore. He had a life and a future and so much possibility and potential.

And that realisation stung more than anything the former consulting detective had faced in the previous three years.

TBC…


End file.
